Everything, Anything
by feralpixc
Summary: Amnesia fic. When she turned to the left she met a boy. Hazel eyes. Fair skin. Who are you? she asked. Beats me, the guy said, as blank as she. Who are you? Two people wake up on the cement, not a memory between them. Who are they? And what? R&R loved.
1. Tomcat Musk and Three Empty Gum Wrappers

_Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel, the characters, or any ounce of sanity, thank you._

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Tom Cat Musk and Three Empty Gum Wrappers

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It was cold. That was the first moment, and it stood alone. The sky was grey, the wind driving pillars of black smoke and thick clouds around through the air, an ominous mass of darkness against a backdrop of tall buildings. It rumbled. A plastic bag flew past, over head, spiralling. Her eyes were watering a little. The concrete was rough under the pads of her fingers, and she could hear traffic, and people, the noises blurred into an indistinguishable mess of sound, individual voices blurting dialogue into her head sporadically, her head a badly tuned radio.

When she turned to the right she met a can, colourful red and white aluminium crumpled in the middle, bent and broken. Beyond it was a graffiti covered brick wall, a foul smelling puddle of water beneath a bin. When she turned to the left she met a boy. Hazel eyes. Fair skin. Raised eyebrow.

"Who are you?" she asked; voice an alien rumble in the back of her throat, the taste of it a dim vibration. Her cheek was pillowed on the concrete, some sort of plastic that crinkled every time she moved. She blinked. The plastic squeaked. He blinked back.

"Beats me," the guy said, blank as she. "Who are you?"

"I don't… I don't know."

They sat up, and went through their pockets, pooling what they had onto the ground between them, silent and efficient. She owned a dollar forty three, a bronze button, three empty peppermint gum wrappers, one full one and a key to room 14 at Monty's Super Apartments. He had three hundred dollars on an engraved silver clip – the initials reading _AF_ – a half melted chocolate bar, five condoms, and a pair of black sunglasses that covered half his face and looked like something ridiculous when he slipped them on. She told him this, and he just grinned, took them off without comment and started shoving items back into his leather jacket.

Shaking her head, frowning, a foreign emotion growling in her sternum, she started to do the same, brushing dirt off her palms onto her torn and defiantly clean black jeans when all of her worldly possessions were once again secreted away. He stood, offered her his hand, and pulled her up when she accepted it, their movements seamless. He smelled like clean masculine sweat, leather, and tomcat musk. There was a smudge of dirt under his chin, and no stubble on his high cheekbones. Dark, gelled hair brushed over his ear, free strands waving a hello in the wind. She took a step back quickly, dropping the too warm hand, dodging questioning eyes, as she realised tactically that he was a lot taller than he looked sprawled along the ground, and she only came up to his shoulder. It was more meaningful than it should have been, in a way she couldn't describe. It was instinctual, the need to put space between them.

Feeling an itch at the rear of her waistband she placed her hand there, and pulled it back out, staring at the sheathed bowie knife double the size of her palm that lay dangerous and quiet and familiar between her steady fingers. She jerked her eyes back to him, and he just whipped that smirk out into the atmosphere again, saying calm and easy, "Hey, it's the city. Everyone lugs around a concealed arsenal in the back of their Levi's," as he pulled out the knife's twin.


	2. Nothing Yet

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Nothing Yet

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"Any ideas what could have happened?" she asked as they made their way down the bustling streets, dodging cars and motorcycles and raggedly clad people that were twice as dangerous as the mechanical vehicles combined. 'Pushy' did not describe the sheer determination and indifference of the pedestrians in this city, whatever it was. One experience in particular, and the resulting skinned palms and tense jaw, coached her to stand almost behind the boy as they walked. As much as it pained her pride, it was better for her if he took the brunt of any attack. _He was big enough and ugly enough to hack it. _

"No idea."

"Well, that's helpful," she sighed, rolling her eyes and tucking an irritating brown curl behind her ear, before swinging her hand in an arc to point out the tide of blank faced civilians milling along sidewalk. "So is everyone around here. How are we supposed to find this building if no one will even talk to us?" The key was the only lead they had. At least there was only one of it.

"We just haven't asked the right person yet," the guy said with unfailing – _and_, she thought, _sarcastic_ – good cheer, the cocky grin pride of place on his face as he tapped yet another innocent bystander on the shoulder. "Hi, we're a little lost. Can you direct us to –?" The 'innocent bystander' was already half way down the street. "That's starting to get a little annoying," he grimaced, and stuffed his hands into his jacket.

"Starting to? A little?"

"Well, it was kind of funny the first fifteen times it happened."

"Maybe I should try," she suggested hesitantly, tapping her fingers against her thigh as she contemplated the thought, and her possible reaction if she got the same results the boy did. She didn't think she had the same amount of patience. And besides, she just didn't feel right talking to even more strangers before she knew what was going on here. Before she had her memories back. It seemed completely surreal that no one had noticed her state. _I don't know who I am,_ she thought, testing the concept out. _I don't even know my own name._

"Yeah, go right ahead," he said, and she tore her brain away from her own elusive identity, to him. He was hunching his shoulders and tipping his head back to stare at the sky, a complete stranger that she'd woken up with, and decided to trust without question. _Who was he? Who was he to __her_ The only answer she got was a clap of thunder, and a spike of lightning from overhead. It was darkening ever further by the minute, looking like it was going to start pouring the second they least expected, or needed it to. He missed her decision to put the scary queries on hold, her nod, the squaring of her jaw as she built herself up to approach a middle set, nondescript passer-by, and the deliberate softening of her whole demeanour once she reached their side. He couldn't miss her coming back with a wide smile, a glow of satisfaction and easily followed directions, though.

In return he just raised his eyebrow again. She had a feeling that she was going to be seeing a lot of that look if she spent a great deal of time around him, and probably had seen far too much of it in the past, if the faint edge of exasperation, and urge to smack him on the back of his big head was any indication. Or maybe that was all her _now_, as well as his refusal to take their situation seriously. "I'm impressed."

"Yeah, yeah. You ain't seen nothing yet." She glanced at him, eyes lit up with the lightning branching over the horizon. "You coming or what?" she tossed over her shoulder, legs eating up the pavement as rain chased their steps.

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_Thanks to Trinity Day for all the encouragement. XD_


	3. Pillows

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Pillows

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They were dripping water all over the wooden, dilapidated reception of Monty's Super Apartments, hair plastered to their faces, rivals to the city's population of drowned rats. He wore it better than she did, though, she had to admit – and was at the very least recognizable. The matronly receptionist's smile, and greeting of, "Good evening, sir," compounded this fact. She smelled like the cigarette she'd guiltily stubbed out as soon as they'd entered, and something lemony and antiseptic. Or maybe that was just the room. She didn't know, but it wouldn't be probable or logical to assume she could smell the other woman from all the way over there.

Despite everything, she had to hold back a snicker, and did so by clearing her throat. The hazel eyed boy shooting a glare down at her looked like anything _but _a Sir. An Asshole, yeah. Maybe even a Dick. But a _Sir? _Was the woman blind?

"Ma'am," he replied, slow spreading smile aimed at the older woman before she turned her eyes back to the romance book in her hands and they darted away up the stairs. The long row of doors didn't have any numbers on them, endless possibilities, so with a resigned sigh she took the key out of her pocket and started checking every door. "I'm going to call you Curly," he announced suddenly, voice definitive, and she glanced up at him from under the slowly dripping brown strands sticking to her cheeks and forehead. There was no suggestion of the earlier ringlets, and one raised eyebrow over brown eyes suggested that he was maybe a brainless idiot. All observations pointed to a positive conclusion, no evidence having been given to refute the hypothesis.

Or maybe he was just really annoying.

"Oh yeah, that's original," she said, and swiped at her hair with impatient fingers, stuffing the stubborn key into yet another lock. This time when it she turned it the door made a satisfying _snick _sound and she shot him a grin, hand on the knob. "I don't know how I ever got caught up with someone like you."

"My charm and good looks, of course."

"Keep dreaming. There's no way I'd find someone like you –"

After a couple of seconds, with her staring into the room she'd just opened, he asked, "What?"

"Uh…"

He peered over her shoulder.

The apartment was one room, with what he deduced was a bathroom leading off from a door to the right. The wallpaper looked like ten year old vomit, with dusty floral curtains and a couple of holes in the walls as decoration, one of them freshly filled with rough white plaster. There was a huge, king-size wooden bed in the middle of the room, grey and peach quilt bunched up and tangled, dragging to the floor, both pillows squashed up and dented. Two sets of clothes – male and female – were strewn on the floor, scattered all over the room, underwear and jeans and skirts, on the table, the chairs – one t-shirt even hung from the twisted lamp. He stared at Curly. She stared back at him.


	4. Not Like That

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_Not Like That_

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"Look, no offence, alright – I just don't see you that way," she said, eyeing herself in the mirror. "We're not like that." She squinted, rubbed her temple where a headache was growing and pounding, pulled at her cheeks, pursed her mouth. It was fucking _strange; _she didn't recognise herself at all. She leaned back a little and stared harder, brown eyes travelling over the mocha skin, the smooth sweeps of her eyebrows, the full lips. Tilted her head to the side, and saw, right there under her jaw line, a small, purpling bruise. She put her fingertips to it, smoothing over the soft skin. It looked…almost like a hickey. No way could the idiot to her rear could have given it to her, though.

"Deny it all you like," he said from behind her on the floor where he was crouched, searching through their jeans and bags for some positive identification, and she turned her head to look at him, dropping her hand away guiltily. "I know you think I'm hot."

She crooked an eyebrow. "Oh, you think so?"

"Hey, you've got to admit. I'm a good-looking guy," he said, shrugging and dropping the backpack in his hands, standing up.

"Yeah, whatever, you're the prettiest girl at the dance," she muttered, hands resting, easy, on her hips. She flicked another glance around the room, desolate and constricted surroundings making her itch. She needed something. Air, wind, height. It was so stuffy in here she could hardly handle it. She wondered if the single, tiny window was operable. "Anything?"

"Not even a label on the bag." Then he narrowed his eyes, clearly thinking, and dropped back to his haunches, digging a cell phone out of the pocket of his discarded jeans. "You have a mobile?" he asked, glancing up at her, and she shook her head.

"Only a pager."

"When are you going to join the twenty first century?"

"I don't think you can really blame me for whatever; I don't remember it."

"Right. Still, I figure we'd have each other programmed in, what do you think?"

"Good idea." She watched as he scrolled through his mobile, teeth a white bite in the lush pink flesh of his lower lip. When he pressed a button, her pager started vibrating in her hand, riding on a series of annoying beeps. "Alec," she read off the screen, and smiled up at him.

"You're Maxie."


End file.
